My Kingdom for Some Pepto-Bismol

Ignorance Is Bliss...But Not for Dadzilla

I don't know if it's my meds or middle-age creeping up on me. Seven days and my innards are at a standstill. Luckily, I made an appointment on Friday for Monday in case I'm still having issues, and I am. It's also my yearly check-up so I can keep getting my meds.

“Where ya' goin'?” There's no getting around Dadzilla. He's still in the living room 18 hours per day, guarding both kitchen and the door out to freedom. It galls me how he gets to come and go everyday, as he pleases (which is the way it should be), yet I get inspected like Mexican fruit. He should pretty much be ready for a smart answer when he starts the probing. I simply, curtly reply “Out.”

Simple appointment with the usual questions and measurements. I tell the doctor about my concerns of week-long gut trouble. I have never had this kind of trouble in my entire life. She renews my prescriptions and adds an order for five strong diarrhetics. Of course there are issues with the five pills, and I don't get them til Friday. I resort to using a bag of prunes and it works.

Since the creature is in the living room all the time now, it doesn't go unnoticed, my many trips to the bathroom in a short period. He starts twitching. “Got trouble?” Here we go. “Yes.” I close my door. The trips back and forth continue. “What's wrong?” God, will I ever get peace? What I do in the bathroom is no one's business but mine.

Why does he think he has to know anything and everything. Yes, he's my father, but for the love of all that's good in the world, stop micromanaging me! I grit and clench my teeth. “I have stomach problems.” Of course, that's the problem. Why the hell else would I keep going in and out of the bathroom? To cook dinner?

Speaking of dinner, for that night, I decide to just have some rice with soy sauce. “What are ya' makin'?” Gahhhh...Sweet Jesus, get a life already. I clench my teeth some more, “Rice.” I can usually refrain from creating additional tension, by choosing the path of least resistance. I suspect that's what everyone has done with him most of his life, lest they invoke the spectacle of a temper tantrum, followed in short order by a migraine. I think he thinks people are afraid of him, so he gets what he wants. Not true. I think they give him his way like a spoiled 2 year old, because they don't feel up for all the noise at that particular moment.

I've told him several times that you can't force people to do what you want them to do. What I don't tell him is that that applies to him too. That's why when I need him to do something, I sometimes have to resort to trickery and psychological warfare. It doesn't always work, but it's better than a lot of other options. But: one day I will escape this Dadzilla of mine.

<He Ain't Heavy...>                                                       <cont'd in future post>

Rotary Dial Cell Phone for Elderly

Does It Make Me Old If I Remember Rotary Phones?

originally from GeezerPlanet

So...I'm not elderly by any standard, but I grew up with a rotary phone in the house.   I never even thought about that until just now.

Elderly Man Causes Scene at the Beach Because of What's Under His Beach Towel

Elderly Man Just Wants to Float in the Water

Originally found at GeezerPlanet

That this cartoon featuring an elderly man at the beach was pretty funny :)

He Ain't Heavy; He's Dadzilla

As If It Couldn't Get Any Worse

One day Dadzilla has trouble moving at all. He manages now and then to make trips to the kitchen. He can even go out to the picnic tables under the gazebo, but whenever he comes in, he talks about how difficult it was for him. I encourage him to make an appointment with the doctor. He waits and waits and waits, then finally goes when he has an appointment for something else.

He tells me ahead of time that he'll need a ride. Of course, I'll give him a ride. Just tell me when the day before the appointment. I don't hear a peep out of him. It's hard telling when the day before the appointment is since he says nothing. I wake up on what is the day of his appointment (I found out later) and he's gone. A couple hours later, he shows up and tells me they took X-rays of his lower spine. I wonder aloud why he drove himself. Oh, he didn't want to wake me. Didn't want to wake me? He wouldn't have woken me if he told me the day before like I'd asked. These are the kinds of things that make me feel less sorry for him and his situation; he takes a difficult situation and makes it that much harder on himself.

Seldom do I push anything further. Why?  He'll just have some cockamamie excuse, and the egg shells I continually walk on will shatter and he'll throw a temper tantrum. It's kind of like when he asks me what I need from the store, I tell him, he comes home, and then proceeds to tell me something like he couldn't find it. It could be milk, and he'd say something asinine like he couldn't find it or they were out or something else unbelievable.

So they took the images of his lower spine and tell him that he has some degenerative

disease. Groovy. I don't know what we're going to do if he gets worse quickly. He'd have to get a nursing assistant or other caregiver if it meant toileting or showering issues. I know neither one of us would be comfortable with my doing it. Besides, I don't do poo. I can't physically manage it without vomiting.

They give him some pretty strong pain pills. This doesn't stop him from getting up several times per night to go out in the living room to watch TV because he can't sleep. I suspect he's not taking his pain pills, but I say nothing because of aforementioned reasons.

What his sudden night owl behavior has the nasty effect of doing is having him in the living room even MORE of my waking day. It sounds selfish, but if he acted in any way like a “normal” person, it wouldn't be an issue. Every time I go into the kitchen he has to have something to say, or some snooping to do. Sometimes he'll be especially cranky and ask me what the hell I'm doing out there, that I'm making too much noise. Are you serious?! Too much noise from the man who can't stop banging on the wall and telling the upstairs neighbors to shut the hell up? I've mentioned it a couple times, how hypocritical he is. All I get is flat out denial and yelling. Hypocrisy from him is usually the thing that makes me mad enough to say something, even though I know the result well ahead of time.

Since I now have almost no time alone outside of my room, I go stir crazy. I work more on my internet stuff than ever, trying to make a living to finally be on my own again, live like a normal person, and finally have peace again. I always think to myself, “God, it can't possibly get any worse.” Yet, somehow things usually find their way there: an even worse situation.

<Reminiscences>                                       <cont'd in future post>

Reminiscences of a Dadzilla Past

Momzilla the Ostrich

I come out of my room and make like I'm headed for the hall bathroom. I hear the door and Dadzilla. Is he coming or going? He's going, because I hear the rustle of a garbage bag. I wonder if he's just going to take the garbage out or if he'll stop by the picnic tables and sit down to talk.

I can only hope he'll stay out a few minutes, but it's not looking good because it's hot out today. I'm hungry, so I start my frozen dinner in the microwave.

I hear the rattle of keys and I know Dadzilla is back and the door opens. One thing about him is he's seldom quiet, but then I usually have ear plugs in. I head for my room while my dinner heats up, and I manage to skirt Dadzilla. I was undetected, but I'm sure he'll hear the microwave.

I head out to the kitchen after a few minutes and get my dinner. God almighty, he starts whistling. He just can't be quiet and motionless. It's like dealing with an ADHD child. I start on my way to my room. “I don't understand you, Dad. You want everyone else to be quiet, meanwhile you sit there with the TV on whistling.”

“Well, it doesn't matter about the people upstairs; they make so much noise they deserve it. They probably won't even hear me. I guess you don't like it either, huh?”

I take that as a rhetorical question and just continue on my way to my room. Same old drill. He won't listen anyway, so why waste my breath?

Today is my late mother's birthday. She would have been 75. I get to thinking about how she'd make the same trip to her room behind a closed door because of his behavior. He was younger then, so he'd actually follow her sometimes and yell outside her door. Whatever they were arguing about: “The truth hurts, doesn't it?”, “That's right, go bury your head in the sand.”, “Your friends and neighbors think I'm crazy? I'm crazy like a fox.” , “Goddamn New York! This was your idea and I'm getting the hell outta here!”

These are just the recurrent phrases I can think of off hand that I heard repeated throughout my childhood.

I also remember him telling me almost proudly, “You know, I never hit your mother.” Back then, I didn't understand the full scope of the statement. Today, sarcastically I think, “Gee, what an achievement to never have assaulted and battered your spouse. One day, I might aspire to those heights.”

   <Life to Dadzilla>                                              <cont'd in future post>

Life According to Dadzilla

It's All Chinese to Me

It's another one of those evenings. I'm hungry and don't feel like waiting for Dadzilla to go to bed before I enter the kitchen. I decide on a bowl of cereal because I don't like the frozen dinner situation. It's been almost six frickin' years and he still can't remember which dinners I like. I've been asked what I want before and I know I've told him and written things down, yet some things never appear in the freezer, despite being on sale and economical.

“You can't have cereal for dinner.” Oh, good. More orders, as if I'm some sort of impetulant teenager who doesn't know what's good for themselves. “Why aren't you eating those frozen dinners? And what about the lunch meat? There's that in the drawer in the fridge.”

I'd like to know what kind of evil I've done in a past life to deserve this now. Surely, I was Vlad the Impaler. “As I know I've said before, I don't like those dinners or that lunch meat.” I know I'm kind of picky when it comes to meat. Whether in lunch meat or frozen dinners. I've made suggestions too. If you're in doubt, then get something vegetarian. I can almost guarantee there won't be a problem with that AND vegetarian items tend to be cheaper than meat items. There's also the option to just not get anything, which is WAY more favorable that going over the same crap over and over and over for years.

“Goddamn it! What the hell do you like?” I start gritting my teeth. The same thing every time. “I'm gonna just stop getting dinners. Ta hell with it!”

“And that's fine. I prefer it to this every other time I come out to the kitchen.”

“Don't be stupid. You've gotta eat. You're not Chinese or Vietnamese...”

“What does that have to do with anything.”

“Because you like that kind of food.” You've got to be kidding me. As if that's the only type of food I eat. As if non-Asian people aren't supposed to like Asian food.

I hurry up with the cereal and get the hell out of the kitchen and make a bee-line to my room. Dadzilla says something, but I'm not sure what it is since I wear earplugs an inordinate amount of time. I keep going to my room, because I just don't care anymore.

“Don't you turn your back to me, goddamn it!”

I keep going, trying to flee the one man Gestapo. This is the kind of thing that used to send my mother taking off for her room. Now, that's what I do.



<Walls No Ears>                                                                                <cont'd in future post>

The Walls May Not Have Ears, but the Mail Has Feet

Too Many Dadzillas Spoil the Broth

I hate going to the kitchen when Dadzilla is awake. This is why he doesn't think I can cook. I seldom make anything from scratch if he's around. I had to learn how to cook. I was a vegetarian for over five years in college. He must be telling the people around here that he cooks and I don't, because they were joking about it one day. That's fine for me. Not only will Dadzilla not expect me to cook anything, but neither will any of the tenants and management.

Why do I hate being in the kitchen so much when he's around? It's not hard to figure out, given his personality traits. Half the time he appears leaning on the counter poking his nose in whatever I'm doing or he “just happens” to need to throw something out when I'm there. In either case, he'll give me orders or start telling me where ingredients are, as if I get confused easily in the kitchen. I may get really lucky and he'll start complaining about any number of old issues that still don't sit right in his craw, some after decades.

If he's in the living room, then he'll just bark from there. Usually I have ear plugs in, because he doesn't stop yelling at the TV or the upstairs tenants. It makes it interesting to be able to hear him. If it's early evening and he's lying on the couch, he'll “What the hell--?” at any noise whatsoever. Just normal noises people make in the kitchen trying to get a meal drive him over the edge. Yes, it angers him, the same man who sits on the couch all day long with the volume on the TV turned up to maximum all day long. He doesn't want peace and quiet; he wants everyone ELSE to be quiet.

The same man who is diabetic will also eat sugar-filled hard candy, soda, pastries, frozen treats, etc all day long. I can understand why he might not want to follow the doctor's recommendation of limited sweets. What I can't understand is why he denies it or lies about eating that stuff. There are only two of us here, so if I didn't eat it, obviously he ate it! Unless, of course, these goodies have developed legs and ran away like he's always afraid the mail will do.

Whenever I get mail, he acts like it's of the utmost importance that I get to it right away. Sometimes, he'll deliver it to my door. Then I look and it's nothing but junk. Are you kidding me? “Better to get it before it gets lost.” Lost. Like those advertisements are going on a mad dash to the desert in a New York minute if they're left unattended! The only way they'd get lost is if he puts his mitts on my mail. It's bad enough I'm not even important enough to warrant having a key to our mailbox.

And I'm not sure how many times in the past I've told him I don't want most phone calls. I think someone I wanted to talk to has called twice in five years. Oh, that and the phone is in his room. Every time I hear the phone ring, no matter what he's doing, he'll hear it (yes, the same man who sets the TV volume on high all day) and rush to get it. I've explained the voice mail to him, but he doesn't care. Knock knock “Uh...someone wants to talk to you on the phone...” I get it, and either they hung up or it's someone taking a poll or something along those lines. This is why, for 5 years, the phone ringer was turned off. He never caught on to that either, so I had a few years of peace from the phone. Kind of funny he wanted to throw it out, because he thought it was broken. So I inherited a phone when he got a new one.

<Ida-Hell>                                                                 <cont'd in future post>